Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (52 page)

“Satrina, a number of these boys are observing.”

“And? This means?”

“They need to know I am their commander—that I
command,
you get my meaning?”

“Sorry, Rhywder, boys or no, you do not yet command me. Besides, there is nothing whatsoever to do down there.”

“And you think there will be something to do up here?” “You are up here.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“At least there is someone to talk to over the age of ten and six. This passage is quiet enough, nothing out there at all. Why would you not have time to talk a bit?”

“The Unchurians are eventually going to attempt to take this gate.”

“Ah, which explains the reason for this overwhelming smell of all the week-old corpses; you are attempting to fool anyone coming from the south.”

“And attempting to make us look more frightening than we actually are—you, me and thirty youth whose oldest, the captain, is ten and eight.”

She glanced at the skeletal half-fleshed faces of the Galagleans. “Frightening they are, Rhywder, especially if the Unchurian have keen eyesight.”

“The idea, actually, is to appear more numerous. They are meant to look alive, Satrina.”

“More makeup. Maybe some wigs. You have little skill in theatrical arts, Little Fox?”

“Nor have I needed any.”

“Until now. Presently it might prove useful.”

“They stand upright; they wield weapons. Good enough for me. The passage is eighty feet below us.”

“Good, as well—and lucky for us the wind is coming from the south and not toward it.”

“Yes, all good things. Now, if you carefully consider my objective of convincing anyone approaching from the south the gate is still held by the Galagleans, then you would understand without my having to explain it that a woman up here chatting with them is not helpful.”

“That is utterly silly. Galagleans do not cohabit with women? Is that what you are saying? I have never met a Galaglean turn down the opportunity to spend time with a woman, and I have known not a few of them in my day.”

“I am saying they do not train women to man their battlements.”

“Who would think I am here to man the battlements? Perhaps I am here for amusement, some company. Could get lonely up here, truth be spoken; this passage is the most god-awful place I have ever been to. Who thought it up?”

“Etlantians, and they created it for the purpose of life over death, with life the preference—and pray Elyon we are granted such a preference.”

“You pray to Elyon?”

“I did not say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Satrina—”

“And as for having a woman up here, we could ask these strong silent types who are losing most of their skin, and if they could answer, I seriously doubt they would mind my being here at all.”

“If you were to ask and they were able to answer, they could explain what women are good for: raising children, cooking—your specialty worth an entire year's gambling debt—cleaning up, and otherwise keeping to themselves.”

“You forgot something the Galagleans would have placed at the top of their list.”

“That, as well—but there are young lads about.”

“Rhywder, you do not know the first thing about women. Not in the slightest. Why bother even trying to fool me?”

“I am not trying to fool you. I am trying to fool the Unchurians, and if they see you standing here chatting, it could compromise everything I have been working on all morning. You think it was easy getting these bastards to look deadly?”

“Did you say dead or deadly?”

“Satrina—”

“Besides, I have spent time in military outposts, and I am not as innocent as you assume. Your idea is just silly. These poor creatures were once full-blooded Galaglean. I assure you they would not give a damn about a woman disturbing their ‘battlements.' In fact, they would be trading rude jokes and having a good laugh. Likely, they would ask me to dance. Do you want me to dance for realism's sake, since that is your objective?”

The boys at the archer ports waited, eager for Rhywder's answer.

“No.”

“Really? You have not seen me dance. I am quite good, you know. And look about, some of these guardians of the gate still have active flesh and blood. Let us ask them. Boys, have you ever seen a Pelegasian bar dance?”

Out of fear of Rhywder, most of them did not answer, but one of them to the rear said, “No, ma'am, we have never seen a bar dance.”

“We have never seen a bar,” another added.

“Then I think you should be treated to a dance. What do you think, boys?”

They could not hide their answer, despite Rhywder's grim look.

“Here we go then,” Satrina said. “I will need some clapping, pretend there is music, some flutes, a lyre or two, even a barrel drum. Ready? Let's clap now.” She started them off leading them in cadence before Rhywder could complain.

Legs kicking high, spinning as her skirt swirled, Satrina did a lively Pelegasian bar dance, of which Rhywder had seen many. She lacked a bar to be on top of, but she was not at all lack for legs or cleavage, and even Rhywder had to admit she was an excellent bar dancer, perhaps one with a little too much experience, leaving Rhywder to wonder even further about her past. A cook, a dancer as good as any well-tuned harlot, a rich gambling lord for a father, and a face as innocent as fresh rain. Then there was her sharp tongue and an accent indicating she was well schooled, probably raised in the upper quarters of a larger city, either Etlantis or Terith-Aire. She was no village girl. The boys were breathless as she lifted her skirt to kick her legs high with a yelp that would have brought heavy howling and applause in a good dockside tavern.

“You have to be in a big bar,” she said to the boys, “packed with lots of smelly Pelegasians and merchants who have been stuck at sea for whole counts of the moon without sight of a woman. By now there would be cheering and clapping and I'd have coins all about my feet to collect later. Fact is,” she added with a spin, “if these fellows propped on sticks did not have their faces rotting off, they'd be banging their shields and stomping their feet in time with your clapping.” She glanced to Rhywder. “Even here on the battlements,” she added.

“You have made your point,” Rhywder said calmly. “I suggest you stop before these poor boys are unable to sleep for a week.”

Satrina stopped the dance with a last twirl and stared at Rhywder, grinning with her hands on her hips.

“Where exactly are you from?” he asked.

“My father was a lord of the mother city. He raised his fortune selling tapestry hangings, the best you could find in all the Western Sea.” “A rich father, yet you dance like a—”

She waited for his wording, since he was so sensitive of his “lads.” “Like a well-trained dancer.”

“I have had to make my way using all my talents, Rhywder. As I said, my father was a hopeless gambler and unskilled at it, as well.” She glanced at one of the corpses. “You know, the smell here is just too much. I suppose I will return to the garrison. When should I expect you?”

“Expect me?”

“Back, to your captain's quarters, which I have cleaned and which smells vastly the opposite of this causeway battlement.” “I would tell you if I knew.”

“Gets awfully boring down there. Tell you what, answer me a few questions and I might feel more satisfied about leaving, giving you some things to think over.”

“About me?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you want to know about me?” “I like you.”

There were snickers. They were, after all, just kids. “You actually want me to answer questions?” “Yes. Questions I think up.” “And then you will leave?”

“You and your decaying troops can guard over the passage without a woman in sight.”

“Very well, I will grant you two questions.”

“Three.”

“Fine. Three.”

She paused, thinking. “All right. First question. Have you ever had a lover? And I do not mean some hired bar wench at the end of a hard day—I mean an actual lover whom you spent more than a night with?”

“And this is relevant because?”

“Because it is my first question.”

“If you must know, I like women. I like them a lot. Life would be a damned sight less bearable without them. But as for being attached to one—and boys, since you are all listening—not advised. They tend to be clingy. Start thinking they can tell you what to do, how much you can drink, how long you can stay out at night. That sort of thing. Not recommended, lads.”

“So the answer is no?”

“Yes, the answer is no.”

“Okay, second question—I have three, correct?” “You do.”

“Tell me about your mother.”

“Her, I lost her when I was young. I cannot remember her face.” Rhywder paused as a gust of wind caught and swelled from the south. He sniffed it for Unchurian scent. “I used to think I missed her, but how could that be? I was only six. I cannot even remember her name.”

“That is sad.”

“Yes, it is sad. One more and you are out of questions. Use it wisely, Satrina.” “I will. Let me think. Ah, last question: how do you feel about children?” “I dislike children.”

She sighed. “I am certain that is a lie, Rhywder.”

“I am not lying, I am telling you straight out. I dislike children.”

“No, I think you like them just fine, in fact, on occasion, visiting some married friend, I image you playing with them. You have, have you not? Tossed the ball. Chased hoops. Deny it, swearing honestly as you are.”

“I have not sworn anything.”

“Well—are you denying it or not?”

“Very well, on occasion I put up with them. But I have limited patience. So then, all out of questions now.” “Guess I am.” “You are.”

“Guess I will leave then.”

“Good-bye, Satrina, it has been nice talking.”

“Really?”

“I suppose it has. Let us not make it a habit, however, particularly on the battlements.”

“All right.”

She walked backward a moment, smiling, then turned for the stairways. Rhywder watched her leave, watched her walk, the way she swayed. Curious creature, she was. More curious than he had encountered in a long while. He found it amazing he had pulled her out of a well in a tiny village of idiotic Galagleans trying to plant crops and wheat in the southern land of the death lord. He was even more surprised she was an Etlantian. There were several human enclaves clustered about the mother city of Etlantis. They were well protected under the care of the Light Bearer for now, but he wondered how long before Enoch's curse would turn on them, as well.

Rhywder looked up at the approach of Ranulf. He had just come up the dark stone stairs from below and seemed pressed with purpose.

“Captain,” Ranulf said respectfully.

“Yes?”

“It is a message. A carrier bird. He circled and landed near the stockade where we have drawn in our horses. This was in its leglet.”

Rhywder took the tiny scroll and carefully unrolled it. “Was the bird a falcon?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The cook's steward must have reached Galaglea—amazing, though I did give him every chance I could manage. This is the signet of Quietus. He would have sent this dispatch once he had crossed the Ithen. He is close, then. Hear that, lads! Good news—Quietus is on the march. He will drag along at least a full legion.”

“How close?” asked Ranulf.

“From the Ithen, a day or perhaps two—depends on whether or not he presses the march. Quietus tends to be excitable. We should expect them soon, which is Elyon's grace. A legion behind this gate, it can hold until Eryian arrives with Daathan troops. Over the fires tonight, we should celebrate, find the best victuals we can manage and perhaps, though you are lads, drain a bit of this Galaglean grog. If Eryian reaches Hericlon with Daath, we will hold through winter. There could be no better news.”

“I think the mountain will ice early this year, my lord,” Ranulf responded. “There are already drifts from the upper peaks.”

“That is good, Ranulf. It may just be possible things are not as grim as I imagined. If this turns out well, you boys will be remembered in song, I shall see to it. You are brave making this stand, only thirty of you, sent by your mothers and the seer of your tribe. I will see to it even if I pay the minstrels myself—how you stood to hold the Unchurians in a dreadful hour.”

The boys grinned among themselves.

Rhywder suddenly paused, noticing the passage south. “Speak of them,” he muttered.

Three horsemen had turned the bend, riding slowly toward the gate, abreast. When they reached the shadow of Hericlon, they stopped. They were Unchurian. The center rider was a highborn, the hair black but for a streak of brilliant silver down the left side. A horse snorted, shaking its mane; the bridle clattered with a faint echo. They were firstborn, all of them possibly Nephilim of the death lord, not giants, but centuries old and deadly at their craft. Why send three such deadly killers? Rhywder did not like the smell of this at all. He searched the passage beyond, but it was quiet.

The highborn to the right bore shoulder brooches fashioned in salamander heads—perhaps a captain. It seemed reckless to Rhywder; the Unchurian must have been unaware he was manning the causeway presently. The handsome Nephilim slowly raised his right hand. His palm spread in the sign of the word—which Rhywder found too offensive to dismiss. It was the signet of Elyon's grace and light. The hand of an Unchurian mocked it. Rhywder curled back his lip, temper rising. When Ranulf started to lift his hand in answer, Rhywder caught his wrist sharply, pulling it down.

Rhywder whispered through tight teeth. “Have one of your archers kill him—the one who made the sign of the word.”